A flat glass panel with a coating behind,
Some with a scratch or a crack.
Only an image of what is there,
Silently looking back.
–
Reality is its only stock.
No metaphors are there at play.
Nothing is ever exorcised.
False distractions just fall away.
–
There is no enchantment to be found,
In the nature of its return.
Reflections exist for themselves alone.
No candles of prayer to burn.
–
There never is a portrait,
Visible in the glass.
No chaos lurks within it,
Just snatches of memories that pass.
–
It is never a captive picture.
Never a materialised gaze.
That which looms into view,
Never really stays.
–
It will not mock adornments,
Nor will it give back praise.
A reflection is all it ever depicts,
And broken at the end of its days.
